Our Inherent Home
by SherlockianGirl
Summary: An accident renders Sherlock and John momentarily unconscious in the present...and perhaps permanently stranded in the Victorian past.
1. The Pursuit

"John, _do _catch up!"

Pursuit of a suspect was what he lived for, and tonight I found myself in likewise pursuit of the world's only consulting (and equally athletic) detective through a maze of dank London streets. I skidded around yet another brick corner in time to see him fly around another one ahead of me. It only took eight alleyways to confuse my compass of the city, with my only hope of direction being the figure darting in and out of the shadows before me. I picked up the pace at the risk of slipping about in the dark and cursed under my breath. An awful week and my evening off was ruined by ill-timed criminals who insisted on running everywhere.

"_Come on, _we're losing him!" Sherlock's voice echoed some ten meters ahead.

Hell if we lost him. We should be chasing this guy in a taxi anyway.

As I reached the end of the alley, a hand reached out and slung me back against the shadowed wall.

"What-"

"He's stopped," Sherlock hissed beside me, releasing his grip on my arm and gesturing to the passage around the corner.

"Well, that's just great. He's probably catching his breath before running across the _other _half of London," I panted, leaning heavily against the cool stone.

"Really, John. Hardly the time."

"Figured I'd lighten the mood a bit."

"No."

"Fine."

Sherlock shifted to peer around the corner before drawing back into the shadows. "He's just standing there. What's he waiting for?"

"Taxi, probably."

"Irritable, John?"

I rolled my eyes. "Clever you."

Sherlock ignored me and slipped away, dropping immediately into a crouching posture. Following his example, my eye caught the dark figure of a man standing squarely in the middle of the narrow passage. He appeared to be swinging something to his left. I squinted in the hazed, dim light. A cane, perhaps?

"_Now_, _John_!"

The shape darted away as we flew into a run down the lane, and the figure seemed to melt into a sudden swirl of fog that engulfed the end of the passage. A moment later we had come to a halt in the middle of a deserted street, the streetlights casting a sickly light over the stretch of road. It almost hurt to breathe the thick mists in so quickly, and I was soon coughing in turn to catch my breath.

"_Damn _it!" Sherlock snarled beside me and looked as if he were searching for a place to slam his fist into. Finding none, he shoved his hands deep within his pockets and whirled on me. "Did you see where he went?"

"Not rea-"

"Direction, John! Did you see which direction?"

"Straight, as far as I could tell."

"Fantastic," he growled, pulling his hands from his jacket to cross his arms. "Perhaps we should have checked the weather beforehand, hmm? If it weren't for this fog, we wouldn't-"

We never heard the car. It was as if it materialized from the very haze around us. We never even saw it coming down the road. But we felt it. Felt metal slam into bone and glass pierce flesh, before the jarring impact of body upon pavement. Then it was gone, as noiselessly as it had come.

When the air returned to my lungs, I felt like retching. Surely I was bleeding somewhere, but was too dazed to check the status of all my limbs. The damp stone felt cool against my face, and I closed my eyes, breathing deeply.

"Hallo there! Are you alright?"

The voice jolted me from my stupor. I lifted my head, slowly opening my eyes. "Yeah. Think so."

"'Fraid I didn't see you, on account of this weather we've been havin'." A strong hand pulled me to my feet, and I was surprised to feel no pain of any sort.

I squinted in an even dimmer light and beheld a smallish man before me, dressed in what appeared to be extremely old-fashioned attire. But I'd seen stranger things after nightfall and let it go for the moment.

"John, reach your hand out in front of you." It was Sherlock's voice at my side, and I almost jumped at the sudden command.

"Sherlock! Well, glad to know you survived all that."

He continued to stare straight ahead. "Put out your hand, John."

"What?"

"Just do it."

I stretched an arm out into the darkness before me and felt something warm. Alive. Coarse-haired. The thing snorted and I leapt backward.

"A horse!"

"There are actually two of them."

"Strange. I didn't know they gave carriage rides so-"

"What's beneath your feet?" Sherlock continued mechanically, as if completing a meticulous evaluation.

I frowned. "Pavement."

"Try again."

I scuffed my shoe across the surface and paused. "Cobblestone."

"And what is lighting the street?"

"Very poor electricity."

"Really _look_, John."

I shuffled up to the nearest post and gazed upward. I bit my lip. "It looks…well, it looks like a gas lamp."

"Yes, it is."

"I'm not sure where this is going, but-"

Sherlock pulled me past the horses and pointed to the thing behind them. "And what does that look like to you?"

It wasn't a carriage after all. It almost looked like a small antique or contraption straight out of a history museum exhibit. I fumbled for the word then simply muttered, "Don't know."

"Yes, you do." I heard his tone quaver a bit, as if he were fighting a sudden wave of shock. "It's a hansom cab, a particular model that hasn't been used in London since the year 1892."

I shrugged. "So it looks like some collector is just out for a bit of nostalgia and decided to take one of these—what are you doing?"

He had somehow found a collection of trash bins at the end of alleyway and was rummaging furiously through them, tossing rubbish to every side.

I sighed. "Really, Sherlock, I don't see-"

He had sprinted back and was pushing something into my hands. "Read it."

I squinted down. "I've already read today's newspaper, thanks."

"For God's sake, John, read the _date._" Sherlock's voice was cracking.

I shifted the paper toward the lamplight and staggered back.


	2. Home Again

"This is ridiculous! It's improbable, impossible, inconvenient, inconsiderate, and-"

"Should I be taking this down?"

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"Terribly sorry. Continue."

I threw my hands up in the air. "We're in _Victorian London_! Does that mean nothing to you?"

Sherlock tilted his head to the side. "Fascinating, isn't it? Though entirely devoid of reason, and so therefore must constitute a severe anomaly in-"

"Oh God, I'm trapped in the past with a madman," I buried my face in my hands with a groan. This was just not my day.

"Or your century," Sherlock added.

My head shot up and I stared at him. "What?"

His mouth flickered into a smile. "You were thinking of how today was not your day."

I blinked. "And you felt the need to correct my thoughts."

"Certainly."

I briefly wondered if jumping in front of a horse and cab might mercifully zap me back to the future. Or just mercifully trample me. Either one.

I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. "All right, where do we go from here?"

Sherlock reached into his pocket. "If we track our location with GPS, we-" He froze and I saw much of the color drain from his face. "John…"

I nodded. "Inconvenient, wouldn't you say?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched and he pulled that ever-present phone of his from his pocket. Its screen had gone black. The inward snap in him was almost audible.

"Inconvenient! _Inconvenient_?" He whirled on his heel. "We've been marooned in the Stone Age!"

I cocked an eyebrow. "Fascinating."

His eyes narrowed and I saw his jaw clench tightly. "I cannot function here. My mind will—no, _I _will stagnate! Do you not see? Information now comes at a leisurely pace by…by a damned horse-drawn wagon! I'll have to wait hours, days, weeks for the slightest bit of evidence, and even then it would be pure gossip or blundering on the part of—_oh_!"

"What?"

"Scotland Yard. They're utterly idiotic in this age!"

I rolled my eyes. "And when have they not been idiots to you?"

"I had had some hope for Lestrade. Dashed now."

A sudden chill wind blew through the alley, and I wrapped my jacket closer about me. It was early evening and dark clouds began silently gathering across the sky. Combined with the weak light from the gas lamps, the district looked positively ghostly. A distant roll of thunder lingered in the west, and I fought the urge to shake a fist at the sky and at my unmerited bad luck.

"Sherlock, it's going to rain. Of all the things-"

"What do I care?"

I paused from zipping up my jacket. "Excuse me?"

"What care could I possibly have for the weather when I don't have a working phone?"

"I cannot even begin to see how that's relevant."

"Or Internet. Search engines. E-mail. News reports. Telly…"

I shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. "I'd love to help you with your grocery list, but we're going to get poured on in a few minutes. Soaking wet with no place to go."

"Let it rain. So what." He crossed his arms and stared obstinately into the distance, as if daring the storm to strike him dead. At the moment, I would be inclined to bet on the detective. Take away his technology, and he was a fearsome thing to behold.

I sighed. "Amazing as it may seem, Sherlock, we mere mortals consume this stuff called 'food' in order to survive. You will not die without your phone."

"I beg to differ."

"Then beg to differ _out of the rain._"

"Fine."

I shut my eyes and tried to rub the headache from forehead. "Let's just figure out where the hell in nineteenth-century London we are."

Sherlock mutely held up his phone with an indignant look.

This was pathetic. "What? Still no service?"

"Not funny, John."

"Typical Victorian technology." I reached for his cell. "Maybe if you hold it to the side and—_hey_!"

"Don't touch my phone."

"Sherlock, you can't just go around slapping people's hands."

"I can when they touch _my_ stuff."

"God, you're such a child."

"Thank you, Mycroft."

"Any time." I eyed the approaching clouds. "We need to find Baker Street."

Sherlock scoffed as he tucked his phone away in his pocket. "What? You can't mean 221B."

"It's the closest thing we have to home. _Find it._" The closing dark and coming storm had struck a sudden need in me for familiarity. Baker Street had remained a small constant amidst a city of infinite change, and it became my sole focus to reach those rooms in that flat at any cost. Something in this time period had to be the same.

"Fine, we'll get a hansom," Sherlock growled, stepping from the alleyway and striding toward the bustling main street, myself following close behind. A few moments later we had managed to stuff ourselves within a cab, give the driver the address, and begin on our way.

"Stop banging your head against the window, Sherlock."

"So _slow_," he groaned. "This could take all day. And the next. And the-"

"Why don't you just look out the window and deduce something?"

"Dull. Boring. Monotonous."

I gritted my teeth. "Has it occurred to you that you may have the opportunity of investigating your own murder?"

Sherlock shifted to stare languidly at the ceiling. "And how would I die?"

"I haven't decided yet."

The cab finally halted on a strange street, so foreign it was to the Baker Street we knew in modern times. Having paid the driver in what we hoped was an acceptable form, we walked slowly up to a familiar door, almost identical in every way to the one we had rushed out of only hours ago.

"Remarkable," I breathed. "Almost like coming home, hmm?"

Sherlock blinked. "Yes. Except for the little matter of-"

Ignoring his newest rant, I grasped the knocker and rapped sharply on the door.

"John, what are you doing?"

"Finding shelter."

The doorknob turned and the door creaked backward to reveal an older lady, primly dressed in the proper Victorian attire.

I started violently, almost falling backward into the street. "_Mrs. Hudson_?"

"Of course, dear. Did you forget your keys inside again? Oh, Mr. Holmes, you too? Gracious, I don't know how you two make it about."

Except for the clothing, she looked exactly the same as she had this morning, one hundred and eighteen years in the future. I glanced over at Sherlock, who simply stood staring at the woman before us.

"And what are these strange clothes, Mr. Holmes? Dr. Watson? You didn't leave in these this morning."

Sherlock frowned, his eyes glinting in his intent perusal of our landlady. "Of course we did, Mrs. Hudson."

"Don't be daft, love. You two left in pressed black suits, cravats, top hats, all of that. Your usual attire."

I shook my head, utterly bewildered. "You were here this _morning_, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Of course. You've been renting my rooms for years now. Why wouldn't I be here?"

My mind whirled, and a sort of drum began beating in my temples that seemed to drown out even the cadence of approaching thunder. We were the only ones who traveled back, though it seemed as if we had been living here all our lives. How could-

"Stop it, John," Sherlock's crisp command came at my side. "Don't waste time trying to figure it out now. Just get inside." His tone had become animated, and the Sherlock Holmes I knew so well had finally sprung to life again. He skirted past Mrs. Hudson and began taking the stairs two at a time.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson called up as I hurried to follow him. "You have a guest waiting for you. I brought him some tea while he was waiting. I hope you don't mind that he stayed."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!" he called back from the top landing. He then strode over and threw open the door to the sitting room.

He immediately recoiled against the wall. "_Mycroft_?"

;


	3. Lost

"Ah, you've finally decided to sh—Heavens, Sherlock. What _are_ you wearing?"

The voice of Mycroft Holmes drifted from the center of the room where he sat enthroned in my usual chair, his gaze fixed on his brother with a look not unlike a king's disapproval of a wayward subject. I looked back at Sherlock just in time to see him slide down the wall and crumple to the floor.

Mycroft smirked, giving his umbrella handle a twirl between nimble fingers. "So surprised to see family? It's nothing but a routine visit, I assure you."

Sherlock hung his head between his knees, and the realization struck me like another cab in the gut. I had misinterpreted his sudden rush into the flat.

It had not been a fury to explore the familiar rooms or a curiosity to soak in this sudden turn of events, as I had thought. Anything out of the ordinary was a kick-start to his brain, and surely being ripped backward over a hundred years would have been a violent spark to his boredom-addled mind. But this was different. It was something I had never seen in him, something which he had tried so hard to shrug off earlier—an utter loss of control. Something had snapped, and he was trying desperately to escape this situation, which was becoming more a reality by the minute.

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow and shifted his gaze to me. "Something go wrong, Dr. Watson?"

I swallowed. "Just a bit of a rush with some things." My brain fumbled for an excuse this Holmes would not see through, and finally fell on our police alliance. "Got held up a bit at Scotland Yard," I finished lamely.

Mycroft ran a finger along the brim of the top hat in his lap. He was dressed stylishly Victorian to the last shined button, and I could not help but wonder if he really did belong here among the proper gentlemen of the old city.

His gaze flicked back across to his brother. "Another petty case from Inspector Lestrade, I assume?"

Sherlock's head shot up, his eyes widening. "_Lestrade_."

"He's your favorite at the Yard, is he not?"

"They're all here," Sherlock breathed, his eyes becoming unfocused.

Mycroft's brow furrowed and he clenched his right hand tighter around his umbrella. "For God's sake, Sherlock, stop acting like a damned madman and speak sense!"

"I would if I knew _what the hell was happening to me!_" Sherlock shouted back hoarsely as he leapt suddenly from the floor and began storming about the flat, kicking various articles aside with savage vehemence.

I had never seen Mycroft so taken aback. He stared at his brother with a mixed look of curiosity and concern, and silently began turning his umbrella with the tip of a finger.

I was desperate to change the subject and sank myself into the chair opposite. "What is it you wished to discuss, Mycroft? You said a routine visit?" I started feebly, hoping the elder Holmes would tear his attention away from the younger long enough to be distracted.

"I'm afraid I lied," Mycroft answered flatly, turning to look upon me with a reproving air. "I had a case presented to me this morning, something right up Sherlock's little line of interest. Of course, perhaps affairs that begin at the Diogenes Club hold no merit for him."

He paused as Sherlock swept between us and continued his wordless pacing about the room, and then continued.

"Nothing is known of it by Scotland Yard, at least not yet, and it would be best if it remained that way as long as possible. We don't need a team of inspectors muddying up the case."

"Are you hearing this, Sherlock?" I called over to where he had made his way into the kitchen.

"Yes, yes, I heard," came the sharp reply.

Mycroft ignored him. "It concerns a note found by one of the members-"

"Sorry…'members'?" I interrupted awkwardly.

"Of the Diogenes Club."

"Ah." I racked my memory for any mention of the organization, but turned up empty. Everyone's temper seemed to be running short, and there was no use in questioning such a little detail now. "Sorry. Please continue."

"A woodcut printed on a small slip of paper. It depicted-"

Sherlock suddenly appeared behind his chair. "An actual woodcut or a newspaper reproduction? Do be specific, Mycroft." His tone was anything but pleasant, but he seemed curious nonetheless.

Mycroft didn't flinch. "Feeling better, Sherlock?"

"Just answer the question."

"Original print. The ink was slightly smeared. I only glimpsed it for a moment before it was put away."

"You mean you don't have it with you?"

"No, Sherlock, I do not."

"You bring me problems, but no evidence."

Mycroft suddenly twisted back in his seat. "I bring you _work_, which is more valuable than any evidence I could supply you with at the moment. It is not my note to give you, which should be incentive enough for you to take the case and inquire into it further."

Sherlock ripped at his shirtsleeves and began fiddling with the buttons. "Work is useless unless it has a means to the end. Unless it's really useful."

"Murder doesn't have to be _useful_," Mycroft replied coldly.

"Murder?" I echoed, and a warped sense of relief washed over me. It was oddly comforting, as if nothing about humanity had been altered, as if nothing in the general routine of life was any different in this time period. It seemed the only thing that had changed were the numbers on the calendar. We could survive here.

Mycroft rose from his seat and walked slowly to the door.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock's mood had changed again, his voice becoming almost plaintive.

"To Scotland Yard."

"What?"

Mycroft fixed him with a steely gaze. "My own brother cannot…no, _will not_, take the case, a case I have been working all day to keep from the public for the sake of his own investigation."

"Mycroft, I-"

"But perhaps I won't. Perhaps you will convince me yet that you want a bit of work. You know where to find me."

"No…no, I don't," Sherlock's voice sounded almost desperate, and I realized what had just crossed his mind. We had no references, no memory, and very limited communication to find one man in all of London.

"Use you imagination, Sherlock." And he was gone.

My friend collapsed into the now empty chair with a sorrowful look. "We're lost, John. So very, very lost."


	4. Familiar

"Oh dear, Mr. Holmes," a soft chiding voice spoke from the doorway. "I'm afraid you cannot work in such dim light!"

"Don't call me that, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock shot back from the darkness across from me. During our interview with Mycroft, the night had slowly crept through the windows, and with no lamps or candles lit, the figure of Sherlock Holmes had slowly dissolved into a backdrop of black.

"I beg your pardon?" The landlady sounded profoundly confused.

"There is no 'Mr. Holmes' or any such nonsense," Sherlock replied irritably.

"But that is what you are always called," protested Mrs. Hudson. "Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson."

"Oh, I rather like that," I chimed in, pleased with such a regular use of my professional title.

"It's 'Sherlock' and 'John' and nothing else!"

"But Mr. Hol-"

"'_Sherlock'_!"

"But Mr. Sherlock Hol-"

_"Mrs. Hudson!"_

I refrained from yelling _"John Watson!"_ to complete the set for fear of Sherlock bending his growing frustration upon me. I had begun to anticipate a great deal of problems as a direct result of our sudden visit to the past, but I had not foreseen the simple issue of formalities. Sherlock wasn't delicate with social things, and if he balked at the issue of names now, I could soon look forward to his reaction to Victorian society. To laugh or groan at the image, I still couldn't decide.

Mrs. Hudson had left the room clearly flustered, hurriedly closing the door behind her in an effort to escape any further fire from Sherlock. And so I was shut off in a room, in the dark, with my friend who could at any moment explode into another fit of fury, with myself directly in his path. I kept an eye on the door and formulated the quickest path to the exit should I need to move fast.

When Sherlock spoke next, however, he was calm. "I need light."

"What happened to your torch?"

"Gone. The driver who found us took it."

"Great, we've upset history thanks to you giving out technology before its time."

"Just light a lamp, John."

As if I knew where anything was in this new flat. "Hold on, just let me find two sticks to rub together."

"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock snapped, and his eyes lit up in the sudden flame that flared in front of his face. I blinked. Why would he be carrying…?

I folded my arms. "You've been planning on smoking."

Sherlock had found two small lamps on the mantelpiece to light, and soon a soft glow began to soak the room. "You have no proof," he said, his back still to me.

I cleared my throat. "Matches in your pocket, it looks like, from the angle you were sitting. You've had a bit of a nervous twitch, even before that cab hit us, but since I was with you, you couldn't smoke then. Even now you are studying the collection of pipes that are on that mantelpiece, and are sniffing out the tobacco that is probably hidden nearby."

Sherlock whirled on me, a dubious look on his face. "Well, clever you."

"Could I have that in writing?"

"No."

"Fine."

Sherlock gave the pipes one last glance before settling back into his chair. He looked across at me earnestly. "We have a case now, John. To find Mycroft's rooms must be our next move. No, _palace_. He probably has a large, sprawling flat. Suits him."

"Shouldn't we have a look around first?"

My friend's brow furrowed. "Around what?"

"The flat, this new 221B. If we're stuck in 1892, we might as well become familiar with it."

Sherlock threw exactly two and a half glances around the room and sighed. "Not much to see, I'm afraid. More pressing matters await." He struck his fists against the chair and jumped to his feet, crossing the room in three strides.

"You're forgetting something, Sherlock."

He released the handle to the door and slumped against it. "Oh, what now?"

"Clothing."

"Yes, I'm wearing some, thank you."

"I don't think the Queen would be pleased with it."

"Who, Mycroft?"

"Queen _Victoria._ Have you forgotten where you are?"

Sherlock grabbed the handle again. "London," he retorted nonchalantly.

"Over a century ago!" I rose from my chair and pointed to the hat rack by the door. Two heavy coats, a top hat, and a bowler hung from it. "Now dress like it."

It was difficult to argue the point of time travel with any man, but to convince Sherlock Holmes that he must play along with it was like…oh, there just weren't words for it.

"Think of it as a disguise," I offered, trying to use an encouraging tone. "We need to blend in. It looks as if we'll be here awhile."

Sherlock groaned.

"Maybe just a few days," I added quickly. "But if we have to live here, we need to keep a low profile. No modern clothing or flashy mobiles. When in Rome…"

"We're not in Rome."

"You know what I mean!"

"Yes, you were making an erroneous geographic statement."

I briefly reminded myself that murdering one's flatmate would probably break our tenant contract with Mrs. Hudson, in addition to getting myself thrown into a dark prison while Sherlock ran around Old London doing God knows what…and we couldn't have that. Silently crossing the room, I lifted the top hat from its hook and eyed its size.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "That's mine."

I frowned. "Why do you get to wear the top hat?"

"Because I'm dark and mysterious, John. You are obvious and shorter, so you get to wear the bowler."

I scoffed and held the hat away from him at arms length. "That's ridiculous, Sherlock. Even you know that's faulty reasoning!"

"Would you care to hear the real deductions, then?"

"God, no." I tossed the top hat in his direction and donned the brown bowler without another word. I was immediately struck by how familiar the hat felt, as if I had been wearing it for years. Odd, the coat fit almost too well. I had never worn anything like them before, but something seemed as if…

"Did you get your revolver from the desk drawer, John?" Sherlock suddenly asked. My head shot up and I saw a look of confusion cross Sherlock's face. His expression must have matched mine.

"I don't keep a revolver…in a desk," I replied slowly.

"I don't know why I asked you that," my friend muttered absently, fumbling with the rack before freeing his own coat from it and slipping it on.

I shrugged. "You've said stranger things."

"I don't often ask about things I already _know_."

"Drop it, Sherlock. Your brain is probably just addled from time travel."

He rolled his eyes. "Then let's add a second family reunion to the list."


	5. Dark Diogenes

"No."

"It's a cane, Sherlock. You walk with it."

"I'm perfectly capable of walking by myself."

I gritted my teeth. "Oh, I can change that."

Sherlock gave me a disapproving look. "To play the part?"

"Yes, the part of two ordinary, inconspicuous Victorian gentlemen."

Sherlock took the cane from me and alternated balancing the tip of the handle on each of his fingers. "You seem very eager to blend in here, John. Afraid of something?"

We had finally made our way out of the flat, and I turned to shut the door behind me. I paused, glancing around at the figures of men and horses passing through the dark of Baker Street. I noticed nothing unusual, just the muffled sound of conversations across the cobblestones, and the occasional hailing of an approaching cab.

"Do you remember that man we saw in the alleyway?" I asked in a low voice, my eyes never leaving the street before us. "Back in the future?"

"You mean the one we were chasing."

"No, the man we saw before the car hit us. He dashed off before we could get close to him."

"Same man."

I shook my head. "No. No, I don't think it was."

"We were chasing _a _suspect, just _one _man. People don't simply appear out of fog."

"This one did."

Sherlock raised a hand to massage his right temple with his fingertips. "Why do you insist on believing these wild theories, John? Time travel, people appearing and disappearing…"

I snorted. "Because right now, believe it or not, it makes more sense than all your scientific logic."

I immediately regretted the words. Whether the fiery glare Sherlock fixed me with meant he was going to strike me with his cane or lecture me to death, I couldn't tell.

"There is a logical explanation for this," he spoke between clenched teeth. "There is _always _a logical explanation."

"What if there isn't one this time?"

"This isn't real, John."

"Then what is it?"

"Severe head trauma from our little accident this evening."

"You mean we're actually both in a coma."

"Perhaps."

I tilted my head to the side. "Then why are you taking this case Mycroft went on about, if it's just our imagination?"

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. "Routine. Distraction. Coping mechanism."

"Because you're afraid it might be real," I muttered as I turned to bolt the door. Sherlock only looked at me.

I cleared my throat. "So you're willing to play along until we wake up in the future, is that it?"

"Is there anything else to do?"

"We cou-"

Sherlock struck the landing with his cane. "Not important. Are we leaving?"

I sighed. "Your brother said something about a Dio…Diogenes Club, is that it? Find that first?"

We had no trouble in getting to the peculiar club in question; our cab driver took us directly there as if it were the only route he knew. Odd, but of course it had to have been Mycroft. His agents had kidnapped me too many times for me not see that he had a hand in almost everything connected with me and his brother. Mycroft Holmes, in control of the situation as ever.

The turbulent storm of the earlier evening subsided into a drenching mist that hung about the dimly lit streets like a parting curtain. Our cab shot right through it, revealing yellowing fog as it swirled past street lamps in our wake. On a night like this, I was glad our vehicle of transport was enclosed. Sherlock had muttered something about it being called a "brougham", a term that I quickly added to my growing Victorian vocabulary. A closed, four-wheel carriage for two to four people. Noted.

When we rolled to a halt some time later, I peered out the window and was immediately struck by the whitewashed building that loomed out of the darkness at us. There was very little to distinguish it from any other building along the street, except for a small gold placard near the door that was printed with the solemn words "The Diogenes Club." On either side of the somber black door were windows dark with thick red curtains. The place had the feeling of private dignity, if not to a slightly pompous degree.

Sherlock stepped down from the brougham without a word. His gaze scanned the front of the building with little interest before he turned to pay our driver. Curiously enough, the horse had already been whipped into a trot and the cab sped away until the fog engulfed them completely.

"Mycroft pay him off, then?" I shrugged.

"My brother did not send that cab," Sherlock replied evenly.

"What?"

"It seems we are being watched outside of Mycroft's circles." A strange smile crossed his lips. "Excellent."

"Sorry, why would someone watching us be a good thing?"

"Because it means we have a fan. Or archenemy."

I scanned the shadows for any signs of surveillance. "And of course you want it to be an enemy."

My friend whirled in a circle, taking the street in from every angle. "Yes, those are always more fun."

I will never understand why Sherlock Holmes thinks that people who threaten our lives are "fun".

"Sherlock, does the name "Jack the Ripper" mean anything to you? There's a reason the crimes of Victorian London haven't been forgotten."

"Indeed, they were much more exciting."

"Now that's just indecent," I chided, shooting him a reproving look. "Those were brutal murders and-"

"John, let me ask you a question."

"What?"

Sherlock put a hand on each of my shoulders and gave me a stern look. "Are you a prostitute?"

My mouth dropped open. "_What? _Of course not!"

"Wonderful," Sherlock replied placidly with a hint of a smirk. "Then old Jack should leave us alone."

I clenched my fist, and was considering where on my friend's body I could effectively land a blow when I was sorely interrupted.

"A distasteful thing to jest about, Sherlock," a lofty voice drifted from behind us, and we spun around to find Mycroft Holmes leaning regally against the doorframe, a look of quiet disapproval on his face.

"I'm told the matter of taste is a weakness of mine," Sherlock countered sardonically as he focused his attention on the view of the rooms behind his brother. "May we come in, or would you prefer to have our little chat outside?"

"Chat?" Mycroft frowned and slid away from the door toward us.

"Yes, chat. Talk. Conversation. Oh!" Sherlock rolled his eyes at a sudden realization. "Of course, the time period. Do use as much old-fashioned speech as necessary."

"I am not so removed from society not to recognize the word," Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Old-fashioned? Tell me, Sherlock…" Here a puzzled look crept into his gaze. "I've observed much of your strange behaviour today; your speech is quite odd, your clothes utterly foreign, and that look in your eyes…."

"Tears of joy, dear brother," the younger Holmes declared.

"No," Mycroft said in a low voice. "I am inclined to think-"

I didn't catch his last words, possibly because I had grown bored and slipped inside the Diogenes Club, leaving the two siblings to argue back in the street.

Ducking into the first room on my right, I found myself in a dimly lit parlor with the glow of dying lamplight falling in pools on the floor. I could just make out the figure of a seated man ahead, wreathed in smoke and with what looked like a paper spread across his lap.

"Hello," I ventured, though I was not exactly sure why I uttered the greeting.

There was no answer. I stepped forward onto the thick carpet and crossed the room with measured steps. The smoke did not seem to dissipate, but hung low in a stifling cloud around me.

"Can you tell me about your club?" I tried again, inching around the edge of the man's chair to face him.

Silence.

I reached out and touched his shoulder. I paused and thought of leaving, but some medical instinct would not be satisfied until I gently shook him. Then he was falling toward me, and as I caught his head, I immediately recoiled with a cry of horror.

"John!" Sherlock called from across the room, a note of confusion in his voice. I barely noticed the sound of racing footsteps cross the carpet.

"There is no speaking allowed in this room," Mycroft suddenly hissed in my ear. I looked up to see both Holmes brothers towering over me, only silhouettes in the dim light.

"The perfect place for a dead man, then," I shot back.


	6. From Memory

_**A/N: Thank you all for the kind reviews; they are appreciated more than you know! **_

* * *

__There are not many words that get the full, undivided attention of Sherlock Holmes, but ones associated with "death" seem to work rather well. Only a second had passed since I had announced the presence of the corpse before I was nudged aside to make room for the room's only official detective.

"Bring that lamp down here," Sherlock commanded his brother, to which Mycroft briskly snatched the light up from the table and placed it on the carpet before us. It was in its sickly yellow glow that we saw what had fallen from a chair in the Diogenes Club parlour.

The stout form of a man lay face down on the thick carpet, his legs buckled and limbs splayed about in the posture in which he fell. The blood now drying on my hands had come from his head, which appeared to have been bludgeoned no less than four times from behind. His head was covered by a shock of fiery red hair, disheveled in the front and sides and matted in the back.

"Murder in the Diogenes," Mycroft whispered, his usual calm momentarily shaken. "A dead man in a silent club…"

"Poetic, Mycroft," Sherlock remarked, and I suddenly realized that my friend had crawled behind the man's chair to investigate the floor. "Damn the dark!" he added.

"There is a lamp positioned on the floor," the elder Holmes declared dryly.

"I hadn't noticed," the younger snapped. "We could do with about forty more hanging from the ceiling and switched on with a light switch by the door!"

Mycroft frowned, an expression that seemed not unlike that of a disapproving parent. "There is little time for such nonsense at the present moment, Sherlock."

"Electricity makes perfect sense," the detective grumbled. "Oh, I know! We can build a small fire here on the floor or wait until the sun comes up! Either way, we would have enough light to—"

"We do not need electricity to ascertain that a murder has been committed upon the premises," Mycroft countered sternly. "I suggest we inform Scotland Yard of the matter, unless you are still otherwise engaged."

"I'm still very much engaged, as you put it," Sherlock answered coolly. He glanced over his shoulder. "John, what does this man's body suggest to you?"

I took a deep breath. "Um. Well, he died about two hours ago, as his limbs are showing of rigor mortis. He's been hit multiple times with a blunt object to the occipital and temporal lobes, and the blood that has trickled to the front of his face suggests he was leaning over when I found him, though it was too dark to be sure. I…I think he was smoking. There was this haze of smoke in the room…still is actually," I paused to sniff the air. "Cigarette. Seems familiar."

Sherlock smiled. "Excellent, John! Anything else?"

I strained my eyes in the bad light, and then shook my head.

Sherlock straightened and stepped nimbly over the body. "I do believe you've covered all the facts. Well, the obvious ones."

I managed a thin smile. "Thanks. And what is it that _you_ see?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time done manual labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in China, and that he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else."

I stared at him. "Where did that come from?"

Sherlock seemed equally surprised. "Did I say that out loud?"

"Yes."

He blinked twice rapidly. "Those words. I've said them before."

"Sherlock, you don't talk like that. You've never talked like that," I reminded him.

"Nonsense," Mycroft interjected with a clearing of his throat. "It's the first time the man has sounded himself this entire evening."

"_Omne ignotum pro magnifico_," Sherlock muttered.

"Was that _Latin_?" I exclaimed.

"Was it?" Sherlock had begun to pace absently about the room, stumbling over the occasional footstool in the dark. He suddenly whirled on me. "Why do I remember it?"

"What?"

"It's a memory. A very old one, forgotten but now suddenly resurfaced. I've said it to you before."

"You've never recited a Latin phrase in your life," I argued firmly. "The only bits you ever say have to do with some specimen in the lab or under your microscope."

"'That which is unknown seems magnificent,'" he murmured to himself.

"You're not making any sense."

"That's what it means. The Latin."

I stepped closer to him and turned my back to Mycroft. "Sherlock, listen to me," I ordered in a low voice. "Right now. I don't know what this is about, but all your Latin and Freemasons in China are not memories. We were shot backward in time a few hours ago; it could be nervous shock. You yourself said we were in comas or unconscious in the real world. No, look at me. This isn't real, these _can't _be memories."

He finally nodded, and I saw an inward resolution take hold of him. He squared his shoulders and turned to face his brother with a quick pivot on his left heel. "I'm finished here, Mycroft. You may call in Lestrade and the others."

Mycroft nodded his head toward the hallway. "I believe they have just arrived."

"Thank you for waiting," his brother said flatly.

"My apologies. You seemed momentarily indisposed."

"I'm fine."

Mycroft cast a keen eye over my friend and pursed his lips, but said nothing. He had barely stepped away from us before Detective Inspector Lestrade burst upon the scene, flanked by two sergeants of less impressive standing. The rain had returned with a vengeance, as Lestrade's long brown coat was thoroughly soaked, the water droplets running their courses down his sleeves and front. Like all the friends we had met tonight, this Lestrade looked exactly the same as our future one, only now he used the clothing and speech of the bygone century.

"Ah, the other one is present," he said in that voice we knew so well. "I knew if one Holmes called for us, the other must be involved as well."

Sherlock was watching him, his sharp gaze flitting over each officer from the Yard. "Inspector Lestrade. It's good to see a familiar face."

The man tipped his hat. "Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock."

"I beg your pardon?"

"My name is Sherlock."

"Aye, we know that. All of London knows that," Lestrade added with a chuckle. "You must think us daft."

"Never mind," Sherlock growled. He stepped aside and motioned toward the unfortunate man. "Lestrade, body. Body, Lestrade. Now that you're acquainted, I would like to see what Scotland Yard thinks of this little murder."

"Murder!" breathed the Inspector, stepping forward to get a closer look. "Who's this then?"

"I don't kn—"

"Mr. Jabez Wilson." I immediately clamped a hand over my mouth, and my wide eyes met the stares of every man in the room.


End file.
